The Night Ocelot Was Conceived
by Greekhoop
Summary: Ocelot meets a stranger in the forest. Stranger than anyone he's ever met before. Cowritten with EAG.


**The Night Ocelot Was Conceived**

**Disclaimer: **EAG and I co-wrote this as sort of an exercise in the genre of humor/smut/action/adventure/horror/romance. We have no shame, but we also don't have any m-preg.

Thanks to Ruby D for not knowing what the hell we were babbling about, but agreeing to be our guinea pig anyway.

* * *

Panting for breath, Ocelot dropped to one knee on the soggy jungle floor. A few of his men stopped, but he waved them away. "I'm fine. Go on, just find that damn American!"

They saluted, and disappeared into the undergrowth, leaving the young Major behind. Muttering a quiet curse, Ocelot dragged himself over to lean against a tree trunk. He had pushed himself too hard, and he needed a moment to catch his breath.

Ocelot's eyes fluttered closed, but they flew open again a moment later when a strange sound shattered the peace of the jungle. A kind of… _woobie woobie_ sound.

Ocelot blinked. Standing in front of him, where no one had been standing a moment ago, was an exceptionally bizarre man.

"The hell…?" said Ocelot.

"Adaaaamskaaaa," the bizarre man said tremulously. "I am the ghost of your dead father."

"Oh my God," Ocelot gasped. "Dad?" But then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Are you sure you're a ghost?"

"What?" The Sorrow seemed taken aback. "Of course I'm sure!"

"Well…" And Ocelot pointed. "You've got feet. Everyone knows that ghosts don't have feet."

"Don't have…?" The Sorrow folded his arms. "You little brat, I'll thank you not to use such vicious stereotypes about the undead! I've known plenty of ghosts who have feet, and they are still healthy, productive members of society!"

"Healthy? But they're dead!"

"Adamska!"

"Eep! Sorry!"

"Now listen up, son. I'm not here to fart around."

"But Dad!" Ocelot cried. "I never knew you. I have so many things I want to ask you!"

"Too bad!" The Sorrow snapped. "I don't have all day to waste with you! I've got a late lunch this afternoon with Oscar Wilde, Cleopatra, Vladimir Lenin and Milton."

"Wow, Milton the poet?"

"Oh, no," The Sorrow said. "Milton Bowlick, my old college roommate."

"…oh."

"He was an engineering major."

"Uhh… that's great, Dad." Ocelot looked up hopefully. "But you'll come see me again after your lunch, right?"

"Look, kid, I told you not to push your luck. I need to be back at Groznyj Grad by six. It's about then that fox Tatyana usually takes a shower. Rrowrr!"

"Gross, Dad!" Ocelot made a face. But then he paused, thinking it over. "Does she really?"

"Hell yes."

"Awesome."

"That's right," The Sorrow said. "Don't say your old dad never did anything for you. But listen, Adamska, I need to tell you something very important."

"The secret location of The Legacy?"

"What? No! Why the hell would I know that?" The Sorrow shook his head. "Damn kids these days want everything handed to them…" he muttered.

"Then what, Dad? A new form of unarmed combat? An unbeatable gun fighting technique?"

"No," The Sorrow said. "And no. What I have to tell you is even more important than that."

Ocelot leaned forward expectantly.

"I want to tell you," The Sorrow said, "about the night you were conceived."

"What!" Ocelot exclaimed. "That's it? You come all the way from the Netherworld to tell me about how you knocked up some camp-following tart?"

"Don't talk about your mother that way, young man."

Ocelot started to get up. "Forget it. I'm out of here."

"You sit down this instant and listen to what your father has to say."

Grumbling, Ocelot sat back down. "Fine. I'll listen. Just make it quick, Old Man."

"It all started on a balmy night in 1943," The Sorrow began, his eyes turning dreamy and far away. "I remember it well. It was late in April. The sky was dotted with stars; the moon was full. A warm breeze was blowing in from the hills. Your mother and I were coming back from an assignment, and we were just about to cross the Switzerland-France border…"

"Switzerland!"

"You heard me, kid. The Switzerland border."

"What the hell were you doing in Switzerland?" Ocelot said. "They were neutral in World War II."

"Oh, is that what they've told you?" The Sorrow asked disdainfully. "Damn public schools. What are we paying taxes for?"

"You stupid ghost! Are you trying to tell me that during World War II Switzerland was really—"

"Yes," The Sorrow said. "During World War II, Switzerland was really a hotbed of secret military R&D facilities. That's exactly what I'm telling you. Now, are you going to let me finish the story or not?"

Ocelot sighed. "Sure. Whatever."

"Anyway, as I was saying…"

It was a balmy night in 1943. They were still a few miles out from the Swiss border, those two combat-weary soldiers.

The last few days together had been so strange that they weren't even sure themselves how they had gotten here… riding on a motorcycle on top of a jet ski in the bed of a pickup truck. She was dressed like a cowboy. He was dressed like International Jazz Sensation Whitey Jambon Sandyflats. A German Panzer regiment was hot on their tail, and the Japanese Axis forces had mobilized a platoon of Black Spider ninjas.

"Okay, just stop!" Ocelot was almost shouting. "This story doesn't make any sense. Cowboys? Ninjas? And if you were both on the motorcycle, then who was driving the pickup truck?"

The Sorrow folded his arms. "Look, are you going to let me tell you about the night you were conceived or not?"

"What are you going to do if I say no?"

"Ever try to sleep with the anguished wailing of a thousand damned souls emanating from the insides of your tympanic membranes?"

"Uhh… no."

"Exactly," The Sorrow said. "Now shut up and listen. Anyway, the ninjas were right behind us…"

The Sorrow gazed deep into The Joy's hard, cold, utterly emasculating blue eyes. "Darling," he exclaimed. "If we don't make it out of this, I just want you to know that I've always…"

"Stow it, pansy!" The Joy snapped. "Shut your pie hole before I use you as a human ninja shield."

"Yes, Ma'am," The Sorrow whimpered.

"Give me a minute to concentrate!" The Joy worked frantically as the Black Spider ninjas closed in, swift darting black movements just beyond the taillights of the pickup. She knew they didn't have much time left, not with Johnny the driver (no relation to Sasaki) dead at the wheel, a throwing star in his forehead and his heavy plodding foot conveniently depressing the gas pedal. Even in death, the man managed to be of use.

"Okay…okay…almost there…" The Joy unscrewed the headlights from both motorcycle and jet ski, used her bowie knife to punch a hole in the thick glass, and with a bit of tubing and a steady hand, filled the glass receptacles with gasoline.

"Is it ready? We're running out of road!" The Sorrow clung to the motorcycle as they went over a particularly bumpy section. Which a few seconds later was no longer road, but mud and rocks, tall black trees looming above them as they sped through the night.

"Yes!" Exasperated, The Joy let her impromptu Molotov cocktails roll from her hands, bumping down the trail.

"Is something supposed to happen?" The Sorrow peered over the rim of his glasses as the tinkling glass bulbs went rolling behind them. Obviously, bouncing against the rocks wasn't creating enough of a spark or even enough impact to shatter the heavy bulbs.

Frantic, The Joy realized that she needed something else to set the bombs off. "Shit, we need some sort of…your harmonica!" She fumbled at his clothing, almost sending the harmonica flying but they managed to catch it at the last minute.

"On the count of three, I need you to blow the highest pitched note as hard as you can! One…THREE!"

Surprised, The Sorrow blew hard into the harmonica, and the resulting squeal sent shockwaves through the forest as one by one the bulbs shattered and exploded, sending flaming trails of gasoline everywhere.

"Now for the piece-de-resistance. Hang on tight, The Sorrow." The Joy pulled him up to a standing position, glancing back to see that they had managed to throw off the Black Spider ninjas, but the Panzer unit remained undeterred. Hot on their heels, the Panzer unit was so close that The Sorrow imagined he could smell cabbage and onions. The Joy leaned down and stabbed her trusty Bowie knife through the fuel lines on both vehicles.

"What are you going to do?" But The Sorrow's voice was lost to the wind as she tightened her grip on his waist. He clung to her, and at that moment, he noticed that she smelled like flowers.

Ocelot rolled his eyes. "…flowers? Flowers? On a battlefield, dressed as a chicken and a fairy, you noticed the way she smells? Not to mention, that if you two had been fighting all night, she probably would have smelled like sweat and dirt!"

"First of all, we were dressed as a cowboy and as International Jazz Sensation Whitey Jambon Sandyflats, my boy. And she smelled like flowers, damnit. Flowers! Now, will you shut up or do you want I should tell you about the old country? Huh? Back in my day, we told those stories with a strap and a switch."

"Sorry, Dad."

"That's better. Now…"

She smelled like rosewater with a hint of spice; something dangerous, something musky. It was a heady fragrance. He clung on tight as she smiled that tight-lipped smile of hers.

Twisting her lasso around one wrist, she swung it, once…twice…thrice, and they were off. And on the second that their feet left the motorcycle…she kicked her feet and the spurs on her boots sparked against the edge of the motorcycle exhaust, sending an explosion of fire dancing up from the bed of the truck, the heat of the explosion so terrific that it threatened to push them further into the air, like two lost leaves in an updraft.

Below, and it seemed so small…the Panzer units tried to stop, but they crashed into the flaming truck before sliding off the edge of a cliff into a deep crevasse.

"This one's for you, Johnny!" The Joy laughed as they swung on the rope in mid-air. The Sorrow gave a shiver, imagining the ghosts of Johnny and the Panzer unit forever trapped at the bottom of that gorge, chasing each other around with ghostly bratwurst for all eternity.

And then he realized they were getting further and further away from the ground. So he looked up.

Above them was a strange vehicle that looked like a dismembered egg-beater strapped to something that resembled a giant hollow metal spoon. It whirred and spat fitfully, jerking through the night air.

"Wh-what the hell is that?" The Sorrow stared.

"A heli-copter!" The Joy's face lit up in the moonlight with glee. "It's a British prototype. I called in for a ride out. Isn't this great?"

"Yes. Fantastic." But he couldn't enjoy their illicit ride. The Sorrow could only think of the men that were killed tonight. Perhaps those poor Black Spider Ninja ghosts had to make do eating sticks and leaves, just as they did in their home country. Poor ninjas. There was one called Hans that The Sorrow had gotten to know before they realized he wasn't really International Jazz Sensation Whitey Jambon Sandyflats. And of course, poor Johnny. He whispered a prayer for their spirits and clung to the Joy, resting his head against her shoulder.

"Ninjas aren't named Hans, Dad. You're just making this up."

"His name was Hans because that was his German name. You couldn't even begin to pronounce his Japanese name. And the food they used to bring! Do you know that you can make sushi out of schnitzel…"

"Dad…"

The Sorrow cleared his throat. "Anyway, as I was saying, the one thing I hadn't accounted for was the erratic motion of your mother's strange flying machine…"

As the ground receded and the sky, that endless landscape of stars and gilded clouds, spun above them, The Sorrow couldn't help but feel a stirring deep in the secret places of his body. Perhaps it could be called an awakening.

Perhaps it would be better to just call it motion sickness.

"Ulp!" The Sorrow swallowed hard. "Darling, do you think we can put this heli-popper of yours down somewhere around here? There's really something I need to say."

"Do you want to make the French border or not?" The Joy said. "Quit whining or I'll drop you."

"But Darling…" By this point, The Sorrow looked quite green, and it was at that moment that the helicopter hit an unexpected patch of turbulence. Its two passengers were jostled, spinning madly at the end of The Joy's lasso.

"Waaah!" said The Sorrow, but his cry was cut short when his head twisted in such a way that it brought his lips into close proximity with The Joy's. Such close proximity, actually, that they touched.

The Sorrow felt a surge of warmth all through his body. Fireworks went off behind his eyes. "Oh, Darling!" he just managed to gasp, breathless as he was.

The Joy licked her lips. "Why do you taste like puke?" She shook her head. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. This is our stop."

The Sorrow looked down, far below them he could make out a few pale yellow lights. "What's that?" he asked.

"According to my charts, it should be the village of La Feria."

The Sorrow never had a chance to ask what charts those were, because just then The Joy reached up, trusty Bowie knife in hand, and deftly cut the lasso just above their heads.

Ocelot threw up his hands in exasperation. "And then you both fell to your deaths. The end. I'm out of here, Dad."

"Now wait just a gall-darn minute, son. You'll never get anywhere in life with a cynical attitude like that. This is a story about my love for your mother, which was pure and true as new-fallen snow. As fresh and sparkling as a daisy in springtime…"

"Barf," Ocelot muttered, and The Sorrow glared at him.

"Anyway, you know full well that we didn't die. I haven't even gotten to the part about your conception yet. I admit, 200 feet in the air, the rope holding us to your mother's flying machine abruptly severed… I had my doubts. But I shouldn't have been worried. You see, love saw us through…"

It was only after they stopped falling that The Sorrow forced himself to crack one eye open. He was cradled in The Joy's arms, pressed against her bosom. She was in a low crouch, evenly distributing the weight from their fall in such a way that she wasn't even bruised from the landing impact.

The Sorrow looked up, just in time to see the helicopter disappearing into the distance.

"You were wonderful, Darling," The Sorrow said.

"Yeah," said The Joy. "Thanks for not getting in my way too much." She set The Sorrow on his feet, turning to survey the quaint, idyllic village of La Feria. "I'm starving. Where can we get a decent steak in this dump?"

Twenty minutes later, they were in a private booth in the back of a charming French bistro in the quaint village of La Feria with a plate each of steak and pommes frites and a side of frenched green beans. It was possibly the most delicious meal that The Sorrow had ever had in his mortal life, served up with a side of survival and garnished with a sprig of The Joy.

"So. Come here often?" The Sorrow leaned forward on the greasy table over the haze of cigarette smoke glowing in the candlelight. Truly, this was the most romantic night he had ever spent with anyone in his unit, even better than the night he and The End had spent out on the misty peak of Mount Narodnaya watching the stars fall from the indigo night sky.

"Eating." The Joy's cool eyes fixed on his, flashing with irritation (or was it passion? Let it be passion, he prayed). She stabbed a bloody, dripping piece of steak and popped it into her mouth, chewing with gusto.

"My Darling." He dipped a delectably crisp fry in mayonnaise, and offered it to her lips. The Joy raised an eyebrow at him. Sensing a challenge, she leaned forward and nibbled it off his fingers, letting her tongue graze over the pad of his index finger, seeking a hint of salt before curling around his…

The Sorrow paused. "…Adamska? Adamska!"

Ocelot was clutching his stomach. He looked quite definitely green around the edges, and pale.

"Adamska, what's wrong?"

"…I can't believe you're telling me this. Less is more, all right!" Ocelot's stomach clenched again thinking that this creepy ghost was going to tell him how he was conceived – in graphic detail. Pornographic detail.

"You have to keep an open mind, Adamska. This was France. There, they eat their pommes frites with mayonnaise. Not with this silly ranch sauce or catsup or whatever these Americans do…"

"That's not the point!"

"All right, all right already. We made beautiful love to a symphony orchestra…"

"Come here, you." The Joy grabbed The Sorrow, and threw him over the remains of their meal, plates skidding off to clatter onto the wooden floorboards. A fork was digging into his back, but it was the most beautiful fork of all, coming from this, the woman he loved.

"The Joy, I...mmmph!" His protestations of love were silenced by her demanding lips, lips that still tasted of steak, pommes frites, and frenched green beans.

"Music!" She snapped, as the little three-piece band stared at them from across the room. "Now!" It was backed up with a volley of knives that barely missed the poor musicians, one that was so close that it pinned the accordionist's sleeve onto the piano.

A moment later, the bistro was filled with loud, beautiful music. The music of a full symphony orchestra. Specifically, Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries." The Sorrow would never forget that moment or that music; it would be embedded in his soul for all of eternity. It was the same moment that The Joy unzipped him and was doing something with her chaps-clad thighs and his erection that made him nearly faint with…

Ocelot clasped a hand over his mouth. "Please, Dad, no…"

"Listen closely, my boy. This is the most important part."

For them, the heavens stilled and the earth moved. And with it went the wall, the table, and the two Cobras.

The muzzle of a tank smashed through the window, missing the two by a hairbreadth. It was the Panzer division's backup unit, following a tip that the two had fled to this bistro. The muzzle swung across the room, sending dumpy waitresses screeching out the door. The band had fled moments before, clutching their creaky instruments.

"Damnit!" The Joy raged. "They were using the music to cover up the sound of the tanks!"

The Sorrow ducked as the muzzle swung around, nearly decapitating him in the process. Fumbling at his zipper, he shouted at her. "I'll go see if I can find help! You try to disable the tank!"

"You disable the tank, he says…" The Joy muttered to herself as she caught the muzzle on its next sweeping swing and flipped herself up onto it.

Still trying to cram himself back into his International Jazz Sensation Whitey Jambon Sandyflats disguise, The Sorrow raced out of the restaurant. There was only one thing for a fearless Spirit Medium Supersoldier like himself to do when the love of his life – his ray of sunshine, his love that had bloomed on a battlefield - fought barehanded with a division of German stealth tanks… and that was find somewhere he could hide.

The Sorrow ducked into a grove of trees. Shielded from the horrific screams and burning debris of what had once been a quaint French bistro, The Sorrow was finally able to concentrate. He closed his eyes, slipping effortlessly into meditation.

A cloud drifted over the moon. A frozen and ominous wind blew through the trees, bringing with it the sound of The Joy's frozen and ominous (yet still as melodious as a thousand angels singing in unison) voice. "Think you can light a fire under it, Casper? So help me, I'll take this Panzer and shove it right up your—"

The Sorrow scowled, and the frozen and ominous wind shifted to blow in the other direction.

Even with all his experience, The Sorrow knew he would never be entirely comfortable meddling in the affairs of the dead. They didn't exactly make users manuals for powers like his, but he had never needed anyone to tell him that he was one lapse in concentration away from spending the rest of his life being spoon-fed and sponge-bathed at the local asylum.

Gathering his courage and his willpower, The Sorrow squared his shoulders. Those spirits, damned to an eternity wandering the mortal plain, all of them too confused or hurt or angry – usually it was angry – to move on to their final repose… The trick was to let them know right at the start who was in charge. The trick was to let them know that they didn't just give out the title of Supersoldier to just any old Ivan off the street with psychic powers…

"So," Ocelot said, "How'd you get your title, then?"

"Haven't you been paying attention at all?" The Sorrow bristled. "I received it because of my valor, my great courage in the face of insurmountable odds!"

"It looks like all you did was run around and scream like a girl while Mom did all the hard work," Ocelot said. "Why can't Mom tell me this story? Where is she, anyway?"

"Your mother's busy right now," The Sorrow snapped, and before Ocelot could say anymore, he went on, "Now, as I was saying, the business of contacting the dead is very, very dangerous…"

The Sorrow knew he had to have complete control at all times. He had to have complete authority. And so, he rose to his feet, clapping his hands together twice and saying, in his most authoritative voice, "Okay, team, time for a brainstorming session. Let's throw some ideas out, get the ball rolling on this Destroy Those Huge Motherfucking Panzers project. Does anyone have any thoughts? Anyone here ever destroyed a Panzer barehanded before?"

"Vat eez dis Panzer? Eez bread? Bread?" One woobiling ghost fluttered before him. "Eez bread? Sveet bread?" Before him fluttered a great motley crew of ghosts: children, teenagers, adults, old men, old women…this place had a lot of history. And a lot of dead dogs and cats.

The Sorrow heaved a great sigh. There were ghosts here from the last three hundred years, at least. "Ghosts from this century, please step forward."

They all stepped forward. Of course, he couldn't have ghosts that actually recognized that time had passed.

"All right…you, you, and you." The Sorrow picked out a few that looked as if they had died recently. "What do you know about Panzers?"

"The Panzer! THE PANZER!" was all the first ghost could say. The Sorrow shook his head in disappointment.

The next one wasn't much better. All the big-eyed moppet of a ghost could do was clutch at the air with its spindly, emaciated arms. "Mommy?" the ghost woobied. "Mommy? Daddy? Why aren't you moving? I'm hungry, Mommy."

"The Sorrow!" The Joy bellowed.

The Sorrow peeked out from the grove of trees to see that The Joy had managed to lasso and hogtie one of the Panzers, which left only half a dozen left to destroy. "Good work, Darling!" The Sorrow called.

"Never mind that!" The Joy shouted. She had picked up a board with a bent and rusted nail through one end, but even her most enthusiastic thwacks didn't seem to be doing much against the armor-plated tanks. "What did you find out?"

"Err…" The Sorrow said, "Well…"

By this point, the big-eyed moppet ghost was tugging at his sleeve. "Monsieur? Monsieur? Have you seen my Momm—Eeeeeee!"

With an irritated wave of his hand, The Sorrow banished the small ghost to the great yawning abyss of the Netherworld.

"Well!" The Joy shouted.

"Well, my Sweetums, it seems they had an outbreak of scarlet fever recently…"

"The Sorrow!"

"Ah… I'll keep working, Darling." After blowing her a kiss, The Sorrow ducked back into the grove of trees, just as a female ghost, dripping blue tongues of spiritual fire, bolted past him.

"I'm not a witch!" she cried. "I'm not… Oh God it hurts! Ai-eeeee!"

So he did what any sensible Spirit Medium Supersoldier man would have done. He stuck out his foot, and tripped her. The ghost went flying, her ethereal flames wibbling around her as she screeched through the air. Barely missing the nail-board-swinging The Joy, the ghost went flying through the tank division, spreading madness and chaos as her ethereal form passed through bodies and minds of the German forces.

Mad screams came from the insides of the tanks as they rattled to a halt, and the elite German Panzer Unit…

"Dad!" Ocelot said. "First of all, they weren't elite. They were just regular Panzers. And second of all, you can't trip a ghost. They don't have any bodies."

"How do you know so much, Mr. Smarty Pants? Were you there? Did you take a grenade in your scrotum to save your mother on the beaches of Normandy? Huh?" The Sorrow gesticulated, holding up his hand threateningly. "Now shut up before I give you a taste of the back of my hand."

"Yes sir."

"As I was saying…"

The Panzer division couldn't have had worse luck. Inside, the wailing ghost was driving them mad. Once the lucky ones managed to tumble screaming out of their tanks, The Joy was there with her trusty nail-board. One after another, the division was dispatched and put out of their misery.

"Oh, my Darling…" The Sorrow came bounding over to The Joy, arms outstretched. "You were splend-ee!" The blood-splattered nail-board came within a razor-sharp margin of slicing through his aorta.

"Oh. It's just you." The Joy smiled, panting with exertion. She gave the board a toss. It clattered against a tank, which immediately burst into flame. Beyond, the screeching female ghost ran in circles around a cluster of burning tanks. One by one, the tanks exploded, killing all the soldiers still trapped inside. The fiery wreckage was a fantastic sight to behold, but The Sorrow only had eyes for his love.

"My Darling The Joy." The Sorrow clasped her lovely, sweet hands, and pulled her away from the devastation. "You were absolutely magnificent. A glorious angel of annihilation. A seraphim of slaughter. A cherub of carnage. I…" And at that, his heart filled with so much emotion, that it felt as though it was going to burst.

"Shut up and kiss me, you dope." The Joy leaned in, and dipped The Sorrow in a long, passionate kiss. Swept off his feet by the woman he loved, dressed as International Jazz Sensation Whitey Jambon Sandyflats…he couldn't imagine a happier time in his life. He melted into her arms. She tasted like pommes frites with a side of mayonnaise. It was pure heaven.

"Ewww, mayonnaise?"

"I told you, this was France. And what did I say about interrupting me?"

"Ow! How'd you do that? You're a ghost!"

"Listen, kid. You don't become a Spirit Medium Supersoldier without learning something. No more lip out of you, sonny boy."

"Ow! Shit, I'm sorry, I won't…"

"Watch your language! What would your sainted mother do if she heard you talk like that?"

"But you're the dead one-OW!" Ocelot rubbed his cheek, chastised into silence.

Rapturous, The Sorrow didn't know exactly how he got to the soft hay in the barn loft, other than that The Joy had carried him at least half of the way. Her blonde locks gleamed in the radiant glow of the fire. Her sharp blue eyes were laser-hot in their intensity, and seemed to burn right into his soul, etching his heart with her name, rank, and serial number.

He truly loved her. And it seemed on that night that she loved him as well. At least, enough for a sweaty one-night stand, which was more than he could ask for since he had spent the last two years trying to get into her ultra form-fitting high-tech camouflage pants.

In one swift movement, The Joy raked her nails down his International Jazz Sensation Whitey Jambon Sandyflats disguise, sending buttons scattering in all directions. "Darling…" The Sorrow panted, writhing beneath her. "I do have to wear that to the debriefing, you know. I don't have anything else…"

"Shut up," The Joy snapped, shredding the rest of his clothing.

Her hands had wrung the necks of dozens of men over the years they had spent together. But tonight, they would be wringing something else. Cries of pleasure. From him. That's what her hands would be doing.

"Eew, Dad! That's disgusting!" Ocelot cried. "Not to mention terrifying!"

"Terrifying!" The Sorrow sputtered. "Now you listen here, sonny, some day you're going to be in love like your mother and I are. It may seem terrifying at first. You're going to ask yourself, how can I ever be good enough for her? How can I ever live up to her expectations? She once escaped from a Canadian POW camp with only a single bullet to defend herself, two broken arms, and _no blood left in her body_…"

"Dad! That didn't really happen. The Canadians don't have POW camps."

"Oh? Is that what _they_ told you, son? I thought you knew better than to listen to _them_."

"Them who, Dad? And why are you making that face?"

The Sorrow stopped shifting his eyes back and forth conspiratorially. "Well, obviously good advice is wasted on you. It just goes in one ear and right out the other. Much like it felt like your mother's tongue was doing, on that fateful night twenty years ago…"

Ocelot groaned and covered his head, but The Sorrow went on as though he hadn't noticed.

The Joy had positioned herself astride The Sorrow's hips. His erection was pressed up against her thigh like an auto-locking semi-automatic .357-caliber handgun. Fully loaded with an extended clip full of hollow-point armor-piercing bullets, the safety filed off for a faster reload.

Or so The Sorrow could only hope.

The Joy deftly unbuttoned the front of her flannel cowboy shirt, letting it fall open over her shapely bosom. The Sorrow's eyes widened. The fight against the Prussian hordes may have still been in jeopardy, but the fight against gravity was clearly not lost.

"Dad...?" Ocelot was horrified. "Are you talking about Mom's boobs?"

"Of course I am, my boy. They were beautiful. Sweet. Luscious, like muskmelons in December. Why, I can just remember how they felt...just like soft, juicy, ripe-" The Sorrow paused, seeing the horrified look on Ocelot's face. Curious, he wondered what it could be that was bothering him. Was it...?

"Son." The Sorrow never thought he'd ever get to say this. The Sorrow's heart (or really, where it used to be, as the real thing was long gone, eaten by a scavenging leopard) grew two sizes.

"D-dad?" Ocelot grew nervous hearing the heartfelt tone of his father's voice.

"Son...there comes a time in a man's life...no wait. When a boy becomes a man..." The Sorrow stumbled, not having ever fantasized about this part of fatherhood (in fact, he had never really thought of their child as more than an infant). "When a man...and a woman meet together on the battlefield of love..." Yes, that was more like it. He could really feel the words coming forth easily.

"When a man and a woman meet together on the battlefield of love," The Sorrow continued, "Sometimes, when they grow to like each other a lot...they start thinking about...uh...relations."

Ocelot's palm met his forehead in a resounding slap. Above, birds scattered at the sharp noise.

"So you see..." And at this, The Sorrow pulled a banana from the pocket of his service uniform, and a little crackly wrapped packet. "Before the boy part visits the girl part, he needs to put on his raincoat…"

"...where'd you get a banana?" Ocelot stared. The banana was spectral – he could see right through the thing, just as he could see through The Sorrow. Hell, even the condom was not of this world - it wavered and woobied a quiet woobie crackle.

"This? Oh, this is the ghost of a banana. And the ghost of a condom." The Sorrow spoke with such assurance that it seemed that it was only natural.

"The ghost of a banana! Of a condom!"

"Yes, well, remember that banana you had for breakfast? Don't you think this one looks the tiniest bit familiar, Son?"

"Oh god…"

"And the condom...this big electric fellow dropped it after he was done using it."

Ocelot gagged, guessing which big electric fellow that condom must have been intimately involved with. "Dad! You should throw it away. You don't know where it's been!"

"Of course I know where it's been, Sonny. It was on the big guy with the electricity. Anyway...you pinch the tip like so-"

"Dad, I know all about the birds and the bees!"

"But you don't know about sex, do you? Anyhow, you unroll it like this-"

"That's what I was talking about!"

The Sorrow shook his head. Young people today. Ignoring Ocelot's verbal flailing, he finished his demonstration, unrolled the condom and tossed it over his shoulder, where it disappeared in a puff of smoke and a woobling crackle of electricity. He ate the banana.

"What are you doing? You can't eat! You're a ghost!"

"I just did, and I told you - it's the ghost of a banana. Now, where was I?"

Ocelot groaned. "Why couldn't you have practiced safe sex with mom?"

"Son," The Sorrow said seriously. "That's not joking matter. Of course we used protection. But, you see, it must have been fate that our blindingly pure and perfect love would produce a child."

"Huh?" said Ocelot.

"Also," The Sorrow added, "Let us not forget that this was the old days, when condoms were made of cheesecloth smeared with cow saliva…"

"Dad, what are you saying?"

"Only that you were a little accident, Son. But your mother and I still love you. Or at least… we would have, if we had known you. Anyway…"

"Wait… I'm a what!" Ocelot stammered.

The Sorrow cleared his throat sharply. "_Anyway_…"

The purity of their love shone through, even in the dark sweaty recesses of the barn attic. He would never forget that frenzied night, when their two souls were made one, when their hearts beat together in a rousing battlechorus of happiness, when...

"Oh, The Joy! The Joy! The-oh my. I-I'm terribly sorry, my Darling." The Sorrow stammered as their _en flagrante_ was cut short by his _en finale_. "I swear this never happens to me..." It was extremely rude to leave a lady hanging, and The Sorrow was nearly blushing with shame.

Her anger was palpable, but he could sense that she was being very patient with him by the fact that he was still alive and had nothing broken or broken off. "Just...give me a minute, my love. Just...a minute."

In fact, it was more like fifteen or twenty.

The Joy had taken out her trusty Bowie knife, and was calmly – ever so calmly – cleaning off the blood and gasoline from the night's excursions, polishing the blade to a blinding-white shine.

The Sorrow gulped. "N-now, Darling. Let's not be hasty. It won't be long. P-perhaps if you spoke to me in a… titillating manner?" The mere thought made arousal stir like a cranky poltergeist in the pit of his stomach.

The Joy raised one elegant eyebrow. A flick of her wrist and her trusty Bowie knife was suddenly embedded in the floorboards between The Sorrow's legs.

"P-please, Darling," he stammered. "It's no good to you without a qualified operator."

"Don't be so sure," The Joy said.

The Sorrow wiped the sweat from his brow. No wonder they called it _le petit mort_.

"Really, my Darling! I don't know what happened - I must have been over-stimulated...on the battlefield, yes!"

"Oh really? Was it with one of those ghosts of yours?" Whetstone in hand, sparks flew as her knife gained a razor-keenness, but the sparks from her eyes were sharper.

"O-of course not, my Love! It was just watching your _mag_-nificient performance with those Panzers. Really, my Heart - you're just the bee's knees..."

Ocelot blinked. "The what?"

"It was the Forties, okay? I thought I was being clever."

"I'm starting to wonder how exactly I was ever conceived. Was she ugly?"

"Heavens, no! Don't talk that way about your sainted mother!"

"Ow!"

After a little more… gentle persuasion from The Joy, The Sorrow was once again ready to demonstrate the boundless depth and breadth of his love.

It was truly a magical experience. The Joy was radiant and resplendent. Even when she was trying to break his arm in three places, she was beautiful.

Afterwards, they lay beside each other on the hay. "Darling," The Sorrow said. "I feel as though I've been waiting my entire life for this moment."

"Yeah," The Joy agreed. "It was about fucking time we got that out of the way." She laughed, delighted by the unintentional pun.

"Oh, Darling, we're so in love. But who knows when we'll get a chance like this again. Let's just hold each other."

When The Joy didn't answer, The Sorrow cleared his throat. "Umm… Darling?"

This time he was answered by a loud snore. The Joy was fast asleep on the hay, a satiated smile on her lips.

Ocelot lifted his head, cautiously taking his hands away from his ears, where they had remained firmly clamped for the last part of The Sorrow's story. "Oh God, is that the end?" he moaned.

"The End? Of course not. He's dead. Well, almost dead." The Sorrow shrugged. "There is one more story about how you were conceived..."

"More?" It was a pained and broken whimper. Ocelot prepared to cover his ears, but The Sorrow glared at him in such a way that he blanched and lowered his hands.

One month later, after a routine physical...

"The Sorrow!" There was the sound of breaking glass and broken necks, followed by the awkward projectiles of bodies as they went sailing in the air, landing with terrific cracks and crashes on the nearby furniture. He swore he saw The Fear shoved neatly through the rattan bottom of a cheap chair.

"Yes, my honey-um, ma'am." After that magical night on the Swiss border, they had made a mutual pact to never speak of it again, lest The Joy rip his manparts off with her bare hands.

In the enforced silence, part of him gloated at their secret while the rest of him found it hard to keep from gloating out loud. As The Joy had said, it was something that their unit comrades would never understand. Later, when it became impossible to hide the pregnancy, he learned from The Fury that it was because most of them wanted into those ultra form-fitting high-tech camouflage pants and would have killed him for getting there first. It did explain a lot, such as the highly venomous blue-ringed octopus he found one morning in his breakfast MRE.

"THE SORROW!" When she found him, she broke his jaw in three places, and his left arm in two. He nearly needed a metal plate in his head, and did need three surgical pins to hold the fractured remains of his jaw together. Fortunately for him, he didn't need those body parts to fight, but a few months without solid foods really gave him a newfound appreciation for fatherhood.

Ocelot made a face. "Wow, I'm so glad I'm never having kids."

The Sorrow chuckled. "Oh, son, everyone says that when they're your age. Then, all of a sudden, the right person comes along and everything sort of falls in to place."

"Speaking of the right person, I'd better find that American spy. I don't know what to do, Dad. I have this overwhelming urge to stick a knife in him. A big knife. Over and over. Only… not exactly a knife. Something else that's just sort of like a knife." Ocelot looked up. "You're a Supersoldier, Dad. What do you think I should do?"

The Sorrow was quiet for a minute, then he sighed. "Oh well, maybe your sister will give me some grandkids at least…"

"Huh?" Ocelot scratched his head. "What's that supposed to mean? And since when do I have a sister?"

"Why… since always! You mean you didn't know about your identical twin sister Comradinovitch Serenity Ravyn Miyamoto-sama?"

"Serenity _WHAT_!"

The Sorrow smiled fondly. "Your mother picked out the name. At least… that was my best interpretation of her frenzied screaming which I could barely hear over the mortar shells on Omaha Beach."

"Are you sure, Dad? That doesn't sound like Mom at all…"

But The Sorrow didn't reply. "But then, of course you would never have met your sister. What with her genius intelligence, stunning beauty, unparalleled courage, beautiful singing voice, and legendary talent with the handgun…"

Ocelot whimpered. "I thought I had legendary talent…"

"Oh Son," The Sorrow said, "Don't worry. You'll find something that you're the best at. We're all special in our own ways."

Ocelot sputtered in protest, but The Sorrow ignored him and went on. "It wasn't until that horrible tragedy on her fourteenth birthday – which, by the way, Adamska, she bore with grace and courage far above and beyond what could be expected of one so young and innocent – that her psychic powers started to manifest themselves…"

"What!" Ocelot spat. "Oh, this is bullshit!"

"Yes, it's true," The Sorrow went on as though he hadn't heard. "Although she was already a top government assassin at that tender young age, the appearance of her powers prepared her for something even more dangerous. And after she caught the eye of a high-ranking member of The Philosophers by bringing his treasured pet hunting dog back to life with her crystalline tears… Adamska?"

The Sorrow blinked. "Adamska? Where are you? Get back here this instant, you little brat, and listen to what your father has to say!"

But by then Ocelot was long gone, hot on the trail of that damned elusive – and ever so exquisitely muscled – American spy. The Sorrow threw his hands up in exasperation. "That is it, Adamska! No more sugary cereal for you!"

And with that, he woobied off. A muttering sort of woobie, that seemed to say to the otherwise empty forest, 'These damn kids today. No respect for their elders.'

End


End file.
